


Lord of the Red Sands

by the_pale_rider



Series: World Eaters series [1]
Category: Horus Heresy - Various Authors, Warhammer 40.000, Warhammer 40k (Novels) - Various Authors
Genre: Gen, War Hounds, World Eaters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-03
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-16 04:03:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3473735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_pale_rider/pseuds/the_pale_rider
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following his bloody reunion with his sons aboard the Adamant Resolve, Angron, Primarch of the XII Legion travels of the Legion muster world of Bodt to meet his Legion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lord of the Red Sands

As the Great Crusade spread out from the Sol System, the expeditionary fleets encountered all manner of planets and systems. Many were inhabited and were brought into Imperial Compliance, either through diplomacy or war. Others were not, but settled anyway; it was humanity’s destiny and birthright to rule the stars. However, some planets were deemed inhabitable; their environments detrimental to all life. Classified as death worlds, they were catalogued and the fleets moved on.

This particular planet was no different. The entire world seemed to seethe with rage and anger. Chains of volcanoes broke up through its crust, spewing lava and ash across the land. Howling winds tore across the continents, smothering everything in choking red sand and black ash. Scans from high orbit revealed no signs of habitation or, indeed life. As procedure demanded, the world was catalogued and entered into the fleet’s archives and the armada prepared to depart. However, orders from the Legion demanded they remain in orbit. The fleet admiral dared not protest, or question the motives of the Astartes. This Legion was known for its brutality and violence. All in the Great Crusade knew the reputation of the War Hounds Legion.

Raised on Terra after the conclusion of the Unification Wars, the War Hounds were one of the twenty Legiones Astartes; genetically engineered super soldiers created to be the speartip of the Emperor’s conquest of the galaxy. The XII Legion were known throughout the expeditionary fleets as brutal and wrathful warriors who tore through their enemies with bloodthirsty abandon. The Legion soon gained a dark and bloody reputation of fighting without pause or mercy. Whispered tales of the massacre on Cerberus and the campaigns of the ‘Bloody 13th’ Expeditionary Fleet dogged the Legion on its campaigns. Rumours spread that the War Hounds had put entire Imperial Army regiments to the sword for perceived failings. Those who fought alongside them witnessed the fractious nature and ill-discipline of the Astartes, and the harsh warrior code enforced by the Legion’s officers. As the Great Crusade progressed and the bloody tales of the War Hounds grew, the Imperial War Council began to assign the Legion to campaigns where annihilation, not compliance, was the desired outcome.

Being fleet based, the Legion drew its recruits from worlds it conquered, often from feral and feudal worlds were its human population were little more than barbarians. There were rumours that their recruitment procedures were designed to purposefully single out the most aggressive and headstrong candidates. However, upon arrival above this world, the centurion of the Legion attached to the fleet saw potential in this hostile world. Sending a series of astropathic messages to the rest of the Legion, the centurion declared Bodt would henceforth be the muster world for the War Hounds; the centre of their training of candidates.

The harsh and unforgiving environment of Bodt served the War Hounds well. Only the most tenacious and determined recruits survived the brutal regime set down by the Legion. The burning sand and ash storms of the planet proved to be an excellent training ground, teaching the recruits the importance of brotherhood and honour. Although they were ill tempered and aggressive, the War Hounds fought with courage and followed their own warrior code. Failure on the battlefield or cowardice was not tolerated and would punishable by death. Officers were expected to fight alongside their men; there was no room for weakness. A steady flow of armour, weapons, ammunition and other resources from the nearby forge world of Sarum armed the growing Legion for war. Its strength and size began to grow, only reduced by the high casualty rates of their brutal campaigns. But something was missing. Something that would finally complete the Legion. Their primarch.

\-------------

Angron stood before the oculus on the bridge of the Adamant Resolve, trying to ignore the dull roar of pain that pulsed at the back of his skull. He knew it was the Nails. Those implants would never cease, never give him peace. Always they demanded he submit to their urges, to surrender himself to rage and violence, to spill blood and tear flesh. They promised to stop the pain, to give him serenity. The serenity at the heart of rage. There was nothing else that could give him that. He knew that the Nails bleached his mind, stealing away all sensation and pleasure except when the blood flowed.

He clenched his shaking hands, the chains wrapped round his wrists clinking softly. A tradition amongst the gladiators of Nuceria. He remembered the rebellion, him leading his brothers and sisters against the high riders, fleeing Desh’ea. He remembered the slaughter of the city states, the paperskin armies sent after them. The Eaters of Cities…that’s what the high riders called them. They retreated to the mountains and prepared for their last stand. They would die free. But not for him, no. He was denied that….  


A sharp stab of pain seared through his memories, a punishment from the Nails. Nothing was sacred to them. They stole everything from him. Sleep. Peace. Everything. 

“My lord…” a voice came from behind him.

“I am no one’s lord!” he spat, turning to face the speaker. It was one of his sons, armoured in the white and blue of his Legion. A Legion he never wanted. He wiped the beginnings of a nosebleed on the back of his hand.

“Hnngh. What do you want Khârn?” he snarled, recognising the centurion crest on his helmet. His newly appointed equerry seemed unfazed by his lord’s anger, his Sarum pattern helm hiding whatever expression he wore.

“Sire” he began again. “We will be reaching Bodt in a matter of days. The entire Legion will be there, ready for your inspection.”

Angron barked with laughter. It was a harsh bark, devoid of mirth. “Inspection? Why? Do you need to nursemaid you? I thought you told me that your Legion were warriors!"

Khârn remained calm and impassive to his primarch’s baiting. In a Legion known for its hot blooded temper, he was known his surprisingly calm demeanour. 

“We are your sons. Yours to command. Give an order and we will follow you” he said. “We are one of the last Legions to find our father. We have had to watch the other Legions be reunited with their fathers; the celebrations and conquests that followed. Your return will change that.”

Angron smiled. It was an ugly thing, his scarred lips pulling back to reveal dark metal teeth. “Ha. Before this ‘inspection’ can take place, your brothers will have to prove that they are worthy of the name ‘the Eaters of Worlds’. They must prove their worth to me.”

Khârn nodded and saluted, right arm clashing across his chest. “Aye sire. The Legion will submit itself to any test you deem fit.”

\-------------

The entire War Hounds Legion was present. Astropaths had brought word of their primarch’s discovery and the Legion had replied. As it was spread across the expeditionary fleets, often serving as a mobile reserve, this was the first time the Legion had been present as a whole. The sub-command attached to the ‘Bloody 13th’ Expeditionary Fleet was the largest and would likely form the core of the unified Legion. Not the most auspicious of beginnings for the reunited Legion. Not that that bothered the War Hounds. They knew they had a role to play to the Emperor’s Great Crusade. All the Legions did. The VIII were a terror weapon, designed to strike fear into both His allies and enemies. The X and XIV were implacable war machines. The XII were the threat of bloody retribution. They were necessary.

Befitting the Legion known for its bellicosity, the myriad of fleets did not sit in ordered formation, but jostled for space, each striving for a more prominent position than its fellows. On Bodt’s surface, it was the same. The different sub-commands had evolved separately and differently from each other, adopting a diverse variety of traditions and beliefs. Fights broke out between rival detachments; the violence met with brutal reprisals. Rumours abounded about the primarch; the messages summoning the Legion had been surprisingly vague and not signed by Legion Master Gheer. Patience did not come easy to the waiting legionaries; their blood ran hot and tempers often frayed. But the desire to finally see their father kept them in line. 

After two weeks waiting, word came from orbit that the Adamant Resolve and its attendant fleet had translated in-system. The tension was tangible on the surface as the Legion mustered in phalanxes of white and blue. When the Astartes had first landed on Bodt, their armour had been gleaming but the sand and ash of the world had quickly stained and dulled their armour. Not that the War Hounds cared, they left such preening to the peacocks of the III Legion. So they waited in the dust, waiting for their father.

\-------------

Angron stood in the hanger of his flagship, before his assembled sons. He was no longer garbed in the rags he’d worn on Nuceria; he was now armoured for war. Clad in layered ceramite and bronze, the armour was designed to ape the style of the gladiators of ancient Roma. He mused whether it was meant to honour his heritage. The irony was not lost on Angron. His heritage was slavery, forced to fight and bleed for uncaring masters. He may have left the Thal’kr on Nuceria but his father, the Master of Mankind seemed little different. He still had the thick chains from the arena bound round his wrists, in memory of his fallen brothers and sisters. A reminder of his broken oath.

The Nails were biting, their relentless tick tock hammering into in his skull. The headache was at least bearable today. A tremor shivered down his left arm. A muscle twitched in his right cheek. He cracked his knuckles to distract himself from the pain. 

“Hnngh. Let’s get this over with” he snarled without ceremony. Without waiting for his sons, he turned and walked into the waiting Thunderhawk.

\-------------

Thousands of War Hounds stood in ordered formation and watched the Thunderhawk descend from orbit. This was it. After decades waiting and searching, they were going to be reunited with their father. With a roar of sand and dust, the Thunderhawk touched down before the assembled Legion. The assault ramp dropped with clang and the Primarch of the XII Legion emerged onto the red sand of Bodt.

His physicality was overpowering. Towering above them all and clad in tarnished bronze and a chainmail cape, he stood before them like a gladiator king of old. His scarred head was crowned with a mass of cybernetic dreadlocks, and the constant threat of violence radiated from him in waves. His bearing was noble, like his brothers, but flawed and cracked. Pain marred his features, twisting them into something ugly and brutal. His eyes burned with a depthless rage, a rage that promised nothing but bloody slaughter and ruin. His gash of a mouth was pulled back in a snarl, iron teeth bared. Chains bound his wrists, clanking against the ceramite. He strode forward, halting before his sons. When he spoke, it was a guttural roar that easily carried across the howling winds.

“So, this is the famed XII Legion Astartes. The War Hounds. Khârn tells me that you are warriors. I will be the judge of that. I am not your lord. I am your commander. You all must prove that you are worthy to fight alongside me. And there is one test to judge a warrior’s worth. The spilling of blood in the hot sands. Pass the test and you shall be my eaters of worlds. Shed the blood of your brothers and you shall be World Eaters!”

The air was split with the deafening roar of thousands of sons saluting their father and Khârn roared with them. Inside, he was not surprised. They were all Angron’s sons; they were all bloody and wrathful and Angron personified that. His ascension to commander of the Legion would be much like his discovery, steeped in blood and violence. For better or worse, the XII Legion had their father and they would follow him, regardless of the cost.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first of a series focussed on the World Eaters, set probably pre and during the Heresy. I've got a couple of ideas that I'm working on at the moment, so we'll see what we end up with.


End file.
